Septem
by Vio14
Summary: Set during and after the Second Giant War, a series of oneshots, an ode to the Seven of the Prophecy. Deviates from canon, slightly AU-ish. Genre varies from entry to entry.
1. I

**Characters: **Percy and Hazel  
**Word Count: **701  
_Even demigods can't slay the metaphorical monsters under the bed.  
**Post House of Hades  
**_**Disclaimer: I do not own Percy Jackson and the Olympians or the Heroes of Olympus.**

* * *

**-X-**

Ever since they'd escaped from Tartarus, Percy couldn't help but think of Bob when he looked at the stars.

It'd only been two days, and the memory of the titan was still fresh in Percy's mind. He wasn't going to forget anytime soon, and he didn't plan to.

Against the dark sky, the constellations shined and sparkled. Once upon a time, Percy had been filled with awe when he looked at them; now, there was only crushing sadness. A huntress stood among the rest of the figures, arrow drawn and held tight in a bow, just as beautiful as the first time he'd seen her.

Bob was nowhere near the first friend he'd lost to this endless battle.

He wasn't the last, either.

Percy leaned forward on the railing, his chin brushing against the soft fabric of his sweatshirt. The wind softly ruffled his hair, as the Argo II floated among a sea of clouds and darkness. His fingers clenched around wood, knuckles white. They were almost at Greece. Almost there...

In the birthplace of the gods, Gaea was waiting. Percy shivered in anticipation.

He would _destroy _her.

The thought was lingering in his head when a voice quietly called out, "Percy?"

Hazel stood behind him, arms wrapped around herself. She blinked as he turned, and Percy managed a faint smile. For once, Hazel looked her fourteen years, golden armor a little too big on her, expression hesitant and unsure. Her mouth opened, closed; she blinked again, before sighing and glancing to the side.

Percy was expecting her to tell him that it was late, that he should go back to bed- after all, he needed the rest. She didn't. Instead, she met his gaze with somber eyes and asked, "Nightmares?"

It was more of a statement than a question, and Percy stepped away from the railing. "I... yeah," he said, his smile growing by a slight margin. "How'd you guess?"

"After... after I was alive again," she said slowly, another sigh blowing past her lips. "You can't sleep in the Underworld. Not in Asphodel." She shifted her feet, a bitter and twisted look on her face, almost a smile, but not quite. "I... I almost miss it, I think. Not the part about being unable to sleep, but the absence of fear. There was never any need for that, obviously. Not a lot to be afraid of when you're already dead."

An awkward silence plagued them for a few moments. Hazel broke it, her voice soft yet brimming with sadness.

"That wasn't the point," she said, crossing her arms. "I-I dreamed of my death, a lot. I still do. And the wails and screams, you can never-" Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat. "I don't know if it's possible, but I can never forget the voices of the dead," she admitted. With a shudder, she rubbed her arms. "Never. Honestly, I don't know how Nico-"

She stopped, and shot him an apologetic grin. "I'm probably the last person you need to hear right now, right? Sorry, for all my rambling. I don't- I don't really know what to say. I can't reassure you of anything." Hazel exhaled shakily, her gold eyes unusually bright. "I- I'm sorry, Percy."

"...It's fine," he said finally. His face felt crooked. Percy wasn't sure whether to frown, or smile. The deck of the Argo seemed so small, without the adequate vision he had in the day. Standing on the wooden boards, all there was were Hazel and Percy, two immensely powerful demigods. Foretold to be the greatest heroes of their age, yet helpless when faced with their own inner demons. It was always the same.

So much power, yet so vulnerable. It was so easy to die, so easy to lose their sanity.

The Seven of them, such a pathetic bunch. They were just another tragedy in the making.

Warmth spread across his face, bright and earnest. Fake, fake, _fake_.

"Don't worry. We'll all be able to smile in the end, won't we?"

**-X-**

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I really loved the platonic, familial relationship between Percy and Hazel.

Expect more oneshots to come... and longer, too.


	2. II

**Characters: **Jason and Piper  
**Word Count: **655  
_Love is not always beautiful, and neither is_ _grieving._  
**_Post Blood of Olympus_  
****Disclaimer: I do not own the Heroes of Olympus or Percy Jackson and the Olympians.**

* * *

**-X-**

Piper had always thought she'd be the first to cry, not Jason.

The son of Jupiter was strong, always veiling his emotions under a mask of stoicism and ice, to those who don't know him, and even then, sometimes...

But Piper is just a daughter of the goddess of love and beauty, a girl who wears her heart on her sleeve, a child who shares her feelings a little too easily, maybe.

She is the one who is supposed to cry and break, like shattered glass. Not Jason. That's... her role. Jason- Jason is-

Her hands float above his shaking shoulders, unsure of where to go and what to do. Jason's face is buried in his hands, sobs audible through the cracks in his fingers. Jason is strong- she is the one supposed to break and shatter, not this handsome boy who hides his pain with a soft smile.

"I miss him," Jason finally gasps, sobs a little more quiet, pain evident in the tremors of his voice. "I miss him so much that it _hurts_, and- and it won't stop Piper, I-I don't know what to do- it's all my fault, isn't it? It's- It's all my fault-!"

Her hands drop to her lap. "Your fault? It was never your fault, Jason. Leo made his choice. He- he made his own sacrifices. There's no one to blame for that." The words are empty, even in her own ears.

See, most days, it isn't like this. Most days, they simultaneously laugh at an innocent innuendo Leo would never have failed to point out, giggling or chuckling a little too hard at jokes and puns, talking about the elf-eared boy who once was among themselves in quiet voices. And other days it's trading anger and sadness back and forth, a vicious cycle that never ends, not with the two of them.

Today is different. Today, as they'd made their way through the forest to Bunker Nine, Jason had been unusually quiet, his eyes downcast and shadowed. Piper had said nothing of it; from experience, she's learned to give him his space, that everyone grieves in their own way.

Looking at him now as he cries, Piper thinks that she is a terrible girlfriend.

"How can you be so cold?" Jason demands, and _oh_, how terribly _ironic _that is, and a tiny inkling in Piper says that she should cry alongside him. She doesn't, instead peering at him through tired and empty eyes that remain a dull gray.

"I could have said something," Jason whispers, the anger gone, despair and regret taking its place. "I could have talked to him- said _something _that would have let him know that he could tell me, that he could tell me _anything _but I was so selfish, so- so-" He slumps in defeat.

"I was a terrible friend," Jason says finally, after moments pass, no words spoken. "He deserved better than me. He deserved better."

Piper stares at her hand before using it to hold Jason's; his fingers are cold and trembling under her grip.

He meets her gaze, tears streaming down pale cheeks silently, and Piper smiles, both kind and cruel.

"If you were a terrible friend, so was I," she says. Even under the dim lights of the bunker, even when he is wracked with grief, Jason Grace is still the most beautiful boy that Piper McLean has ever seen.

Piper leans forward and kisses him. Jason stiffens, but weaves his fingers through her hair and sighs into her mouth; she wraps her arms around his waist and pulls him closer, and he moans as the daughter of Aphrodite bites his lower lip and slides her hand under his sweater.

So ugly, the two of them are. Yet, they can never seem to break apart.

**-X-**

Far away, Aphrodite smiles.


	3. III

**Characters: **Annabeth**  
****Word Count: **768  
_Life returns to normal, and Annabeth tries to adjust.  
**Post Blood of Olympus**  
_**Disclaimer: I do not own Percy Jackson and the Olympians or the Heroes of Olympus.**

* * *

**-X-**

Annabeth can't focus on the words on the board.

They aren't blurred in her vision, or too far away; even though she sees them, she can't actually _read _them, and for once, her dyslexia isn't the cause. Annabeth takes a shuddering breath. It's her last year of high school, and she can't... she can't be losing it now. Not when she needs to keep _sane_.

Her pen taps against lined paper, listing knowledge about the topic that she already knows, dredging her mind for more. Her mind isn't even a particularly organized space right now, anyhow. And lately, Annabeth hasn't been able to entirely think things through.

A bitter smile twists her lips as she writes and listens. Frustration is audible in the loud scrawling of her classmates, and Annabeth can't help feeling the same.

While she finishes her last year of high school, Percy has to repeat his junior year.

Her pens stops, her neat black printing becoming messier as the sentence ends. Annabeth doesn't know why she hadn't expected or predicted it. It would have been obvious to anyone else, but these days nothing is really obvious to her.

Sometimes, plans fall apart. Sometimes, lives fall apart.

The rest of her time at school continues like this. Annabeth, permanently on edge and on guard, fingers itching for a weapon at the slightest noise or movement, everyone else ignorant of her tension, concentrated on their own hardships and plights. Normal high school students, basically. Annabeth is not one of them. Rinse and repeat, the cycle continues every single day.

The walk home is long, as usual.

The daughter of Athena doesn't bother taking the city bus, or subway, or even the street cars. Walking is definitely more of a risk than those three options, but since the war ended she doesn't have to worry about monsters as much as she used to. Besides, the walk is... calming, somehow. The repeated steps, one foot in front of another, right, left, right, left- it clears her mind. She doesn't have to think too hard about- _other _things.

She catches her reflection in the window of a bakery as she passes it, a blonde girl staring back. Not particularly beautiful, but pretty, her golden curls are tied back in a ponytail, a stray curl hanging in stormy gray eyes. The white and blue school uniform suits her, tanned legs flashing beneath her skirt. But her face is tired, deep bags under her eyes that you can't hide with makeup, that people would dismiss as the tired look of a burdened senior. Not the haunted look of someone who'd fallen into hell.

Annabeth swallows and turns away, all too aware of the way that her breathing falters.

When she finally reaches her house, Annabeth has to take a deep breath before stepping in.

A small form slams into her, sending her back one step. Skinny, frail arms wrap around her waist, and a childish face grins up at her. "Welcome home!"

Annabeth brushes away the momentary panic with a sigh, running a slightly trembling hand through hair the same shade as hers, meeting the dark eyes that peer up at her through shaggy bangs with a smile. "Hey, Matthew," she says, and looks at the taller figure standing a few feet behind him, "Bobby."

"Welcome back," Bobby says, with quieter enthusiasm than his brother. In the past years since they've grown, it's easier to distinguish the two now. Matthew is small for his age, while Bobby is taller than average. Matthew is bubbly and outgoing, and Bobby is calm and soft.

A woman walks out of the kitchen, looking tired. Her face brightens when she sees the teen standing at the door. "Good afternoon, Annabeth," she greets. "Have a good day at school?"

Annabeth replies with a shrug and a small smile. "As good as it can get," she says, and Matthew pulls away from her, still beaming.

"You want to eat some cookies?" he asks. "Mom just made them- chocolate chips! Your favourite, right?" He tugs at her hand, and Annabeth knows that he isn't giving her a choice.

"...Yes," she says finally. "I guess it can't hurt."

When the cookie crumbles in her mouth, it is warm and sweet, and content spreads through Annabeth at the taste. Her life is far from perfect, and so is she. But as long as she has a home to come back to, Annabeth thinks that it might be okay after all.

**-X-**

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Hope y'all enjoyed this one. R &amp; R, criticism is always welcome.


	4. IV

This is for you, Skyuki.

* * *

Before- before _that_, Leo was always proud of his hands.

He could do so much with them; build, fix, _create_. Not a lot of people saw what was so special about the line of work his mother had partaked in, but that was it. The final product, the endgame... that was it. That was what all those hours of work were. The beauty was what made it worth it.

These days, Leo doesn't really like his hands.

No, he _hates _them.

In the cold November weather, he's glad for the low temperatures- it gives him a reason to wear gloves and hide his worn fingers and palms from view. Leo tucks them into his pockets, his exhales pretty white puffs in the frosty air. He sits alone under the jungle gym, the sand hard and freezing even through his jeans underneath him.

This- this is fine, though. Alone is good. Alone is better, he can't hurt anyone this way.

This is fine.

Deep in his chest, Leo's chest aches.

_Am I lonely?_

He listens for the tapping of a (their) shared secret message in his ears, in his head, in his imagination. It doesn't come. No matter how much he struggles to hear it, it remains out of his grasp. _Elusive _is the word for it, what the teacher had taught in class just the other day.

The loud laughter of children reaches him instead of the sound he's wishing for. It's grating and annoying, but they're happy, Leo realizes, as he watches a few of his classmates kick a ball around, blissful in spite of the environment. _They're happy. _

A little over a year ago today, Leo killed his mother.

Today is the second time he hurts someone.

"Hey!" someone barks, and Leo's shoulders tense. It's a familiar noise, and he should run, but for once, Leo doesn't feel like running. He stays where he's sitting instead, hands trembling inside the thin fabric providing cover.

David, the bully of the playground, stalks over, his "friends" trailing in his wake. Leo knows that the only reason they're in David's gang is because they don't have enough will to fend or stand up for themselves- _if you can't beat 'em, join 'em_, his mother always used to say. It's stupid, and cowardly. Leo hopes to never be like that.

Following the sudden spark of anger, his hands still.

"Whatchya doin', huh?" David stops abruptly in front of him, kicking a cloud of dust and grains of sand into his face. Leo forces himself not to blink, even as his eyes burn. "Sitting by yourself again, loser?"

Leo smiles. "Maybe."

Later, he learns that you can't just give them a smile and hope it will please them. No, better to grovel and plead, and if that doesn't work, give up.

("If someone is bothering you, walk away or be assertive," the teachers always say. That never works. A few months ago, Leo learned the hard way, with a bleeding mouth and a black eye.)

The bell rings, signaling that the temporary recess is over. At the doors leading inside the school, children file into lines.

Leo gets up, ready to walk in, but David moves into his path, blocking him.

For a few seconds, Leo can say nothing.

"Can you let me by?" he finally manages to say, hating the begging tone in his voice. "Please?" It's pathetic. Tia Callida would be disappointed.

In the sky, gray clouds drift by, heedless of the people below. A gale blows through, ruffling Leo's curls and temporarily blocking his vision. David glances around, checking for any teachers- once he's made sure that no one is watching, he turns to Leo with a cruel grin on his face, his eyes eager. "Hold him."

His cronies do, taking Leo's arms at either side. Leo starts to resist (futile) with no success. Before he can shout for help, David punches him in the chest, swift and unmerciful.

All of his breath leaves him in that one blow. Leo hunches over, gasping for air. (The sound of that is pathetic, too.)

David laughs above him, a guffaw.

Leo looks up, water in his eyes. "P-Please, don't..."

David punches him in the face, a mean right hook, and even the tough kids holding Leo standing can't stop him from falling.

He hits the ground with a sob that doesn't come out right, stopped halfway. Leo can taste blood in his mouth.

He really starts to cry this time, bawling, like a little baby.

One of David's gang stares down at him uneasily. "This is too much, man."

Through his tears, Leo can see David glaring at him. "You want a beating, too?"

A short silence.

"No?" David says. "Good. Then shut the _fuck _up." He sounds smug, proud of himself even. Like he's so much better for knowing curses at their age.

A tendril of incredulous laughter starts to snake up Leo's throat, but he prevents it from escaping.

A sharp kick to his stomach, and Leo coughs out blood.

Something cracks; he hears it, feels it. Cracked and broken, just like him.

Leo starts to cry harder. It hurts. Hurts _so _much. He didn't think he could ever experience pain like this, not since his mother died.

The blows continue to rain down, and panic starts to fill him. Stop- he just wants it to _stop_.

Leo throws out his hands to protect himself from the next onslaught.

It doesn't come.

Fire burns his gloves to embers.

David screams, and Leo gets up and runs from the scene, from the playground, from everything, his chest aching, his head hurting, his mouth not big enough for all his sobs-

He doesn't look back.

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Posted this quickly, so I'm sorry if there are any mistakes! R &amp; R, please!


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